


Anger

by Trinity_Blaze



Series: Grief is a House [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Anxiety, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Control Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Existential Angst, Force Choking, Gap Filler, Graphic Description, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Knifeplay, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mild Painplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Missing Scene, POV John Silver, Past Character Death, Physical Disability, References to Depression, Rough Kissing, Sloppy Makeouts, So much kissing, Suicidal Thoughts, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:36:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7734142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Blaze/pseuds/Trinity_Blaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A sunken chest,<br/>on the ocean ground,<br/>to never be found<br/>was where he found me.<br/>There he stirred,<br/>my every thought,<br/>my every word,<br/>so gently, so profoundly.<br/>Now I am kept,<br/>from dreams I dreamt,<br/>when once I slept,<br/>so soundly."</p><p>~ Lang Leav,<br/>L o v e & M i s a d v e n t u r e</p><p>John grieves the loss of his leg, Flint mourns the loss of Miranda, and the undertow of emotional wreckage continues to pull them both inexplicably toward each other’s shores.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Acrimony

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [Denial](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7153184%20)
> 
> This is Part 2 of the Grief is a House series. As such, there are references to Part 1. I recommend reading Denial before starting on Anger so that you understand the progression of Silver & Flint's relationship as I have tried to develop it. I do hope you enjoy. ^_^

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions ran high after Charles Town and Flint spent most the journey back to Nassau skulking about the ship because of it, reading books and being his generally distant and _pleasant_ self. Plotting, John thought. Ruminating over his next move, the fallout, the recovery - any and everything other than what had happened between them. That was quite obviously not up for discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [Denial](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7153184%20)
> 
> Set between 2.10 and 3.01. About midway through the journey back to Nassau from Tortuga.

“Absolutely fucking not!” John yells.

  
Dr. Howell returns a frown, “I see no other way in which you can safely maneuver a ship.”

  
John let’s out an exasperated huff, convinced Howell’s concerns are of little import. “The last thing I need is a tangle of ropes weaving throughout the ship reminding everyone of my impotence, that is, when I’m not around for them to gawk at.”

He rubs the taught skin just below his knee as if it will somehow soothe the phantom itch where his ankle should be.

“You need not worry about the sentiments of the crew,” Howell asserts, wrinkling a brow at John’s futile attempts for relief beneath his bandages. “They are intent on looking after --”  
“I don’t need to be looked after!” John shouts, flashing back to the time when Muldoon stood above him and made a similar vow. “I’m not --” he pauses, winces, scratching a bit too low and hitting an unpleasant patch of nerves. He takes a breath. “I’m not a child,” he finishes through clenched teeth.

The thick pop of a hardcover book snapping shut disagrees.

“Then stop acting like one,” Flint adds.

John glances over but returns his gaze to the emptiness below his knee just as swiftly, determined to eclipse his embarrassment. The bead of sweat trickling down his temple is courtesy of the unforgiving Carribbean summer. He wipes it away anyway, afraid it might be misconstrued.

“Give us the room,” Flint orders.

Howell nods and quickly gathers his medical kit. The soft scrape of Flint’s chair across the deck of the warship, the heavy footsteps slowly approaching, both calling to John’s attention the stiffening in his shoulders. And just for a moment he welcomes the familiar chill of trepidation along his neck, more loyal to him than the swell of pins and needles at his appendage.

Flint settles into the seat previously occupied by the doctor with an audible sigh. His eyes edge sideways as he waits for the clap of the cabin door against the doorframe.

John sighs, too. “I know what you are going to say and I am fully aware --”  
“Stop talking,” Flint mumbles without looking at him.

John bites back his words, bothered by the obvious fact that Flint can gain authority over him with a tone just barely above a whisper - authority which even he, in his newfound position as quartermaster, could not bring himself to challenge quite yet. He peers out from his window-seat toward the soft glow of stars for the relief he cannot ever seem to find inside the cabin.

It’s been almost 3 weeks since John lost his leg, and what seems like forever since Flint has looked at him in any way remotely resembling the intimacy they’d shared there just days before then. Tensions ran high after Charles Town and Flint spent most the journey back to Nassau skulking about the ship because of it, reading books and being his generally distant and _pleasant_ self. Plotting, John thought. Ruminating over his next move, the fallout, the recovery - any and everything other than what had happened between them. That was quite obviously not up for discussion.

John reaches for the tin pitcher of water set beside him atop a makeshift table of stacked crates, pauses, noticing that a glass has already been poured for him. He scans the cabin searching for Howell, realizing he has also missed the part where he’d left the room.

He looks to Flint.

It feels miserably comfortable to be alone with him, so close yet so remarkably out of reach. John takes a sip of water and examines him from over the rim of his cup, pretends not to notice how the humidity and the flickering candlelight both play at Flint’s sticky skin. He doesn’t remember how that tuft of hair just beneath Flint’s lip tickles his chin, or how the metal rings on his fingers slide cool against the heat of his bare chest. He cares not for the swelling familiarity of his own heartbeat when the Captain’s eyes slide over to meet his - his stare forever burning holes into the pit of John’s lies.

John knows he’d do well to just let it go, but in this room of subliminal souvenirs - the bookshelf, the desk, the chair - a silent mockery is always taking place. The odd unspoken agreement which has taken root between them has allowed for miraculous success at pretending as if nothing’s happened, but John only fancies himself half a fool for wanting to comfort Flint after learning of the fate of Mrs. Barlow. He likes to imagine that Flint might have taken him in confidence, perhaps, had John not suffered such a gruesome loss of his own.

Flint leans forward in his chair, resting his arms on his knees and folding his hands. “Vane has convinced me not to move against Jack,” he shares, rubbing the tip of one thumb over the knuckle of the other.

John takes a few seconds to adapt, the comment not what he expected. He trades looks with Flint in time to catch him narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly, most likely in response to the confusion left over in John’s stare.

“We’ll be using The Walrus for the upcoming raids,” Flint continues, unshaken, “and Vane’s crew will be seeing to the warship for the time being. So, if you choose to continue hiding out, we’ll need to find you better accommodations.”

John’s not sure what to respond to first. “I’m not hide --” he reconsiders, “what raids?”

Flint rises from his chair and walks over to the decanter sitting at the corner of his desk. John cranes his neck to follow his movements, watches as Flint pushes two short glasses together and splashes a brown liquid into one then the other. “I sent forth word just prior to leaving Tortuga,” he explains, a gulp of rum chasing his words. “Any magistrate who serves a capital sentence against a pirate will hear my answer.”

John takes a second to gather his thoughts and stares sidelong at Flint. “And you don’t believe they will heed that warning, even in the aftermath of Charles Town.”

“I’m counting on it,” Flint amends, the caveat coarse and sunken deep beneath the alcohol.

He pours himself another drink, walks over to John and hands him a glass of rum, and John knows he should speak, maybe protest, save Flint from himself, but he takes the glass and swallows the contents instead, bats away the haunting reminder of drowning in its familiar bitterness just moments before Howell had taken his leg for good.

“And the men?” John asks, silently loathing the lingering spices against his tongue. “The men are behind you on this?”

Flint sits and sets his glass down precariously upon the arm of the chair, shadows from the firelight catching in the heavy creases of concern appearing on his face. “We are about to begin a course of action which will eventually demand a response. The men are volatile, as is to be expected, but in the coming days we need to determine who is truly onboard with us. All those who remain indecisive are to be expeditiously cast away.”

_We_?

The word rattles John, bounces around his skull with mostly jagged edges.

_Us_?

When did they become an ‘us’?

Flint inspects him without lifting his head, eyes black in the dim light, a quick swig of rum in lieu of words. This had to be about more than gold for him now; more than the hapless thought of a free Nassau. John understands, but, shit, the debt owed to its most feared Captain was surely not his responsibility to pay. And even if he could somehow go against his better judgment and actually convince this crew that exacting Flint’s vengeance is in their best interests, why on earth should he? Why not take his share of the gold and be done with all of this?

“ ‘Cry ‘Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war,' " Flint mumbles into his glass.

  
John slightly cocks his head. “Shakespeare? Really?”

  
A faint look of curiosity twists Flint’s brow. “Are you familiar with him?”

  
“Not particularly, but I have read Julius Caesar on more than one occasion.”

  
“Then you know how it ends,” he says grimly.

“Nobody truly knows how it ends,” John challenges. " 'Men at some times are masters of their fates. The fault is not in our stars.’ ”

  
Flint reaches over and sets his half empty glass upon the crates without looking, choosing instead to focus entirely on the man in front of him. “You don’t believe in fate?”

  
“I don’t believe in much that isn’t conducive to what my own hands and wit can manufacture.”

  
“And what of nature?” he continues inquisitively. “Surely, you believe forces of nature to be out of your control.”

  
John repositions himself upon the window ledge so that he is facing Flint, their knees just a few inches away from touching. “I believe - it was Brutus who said, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men. Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.' "

  
“On such a full sea are we now afloat, and we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures,” Flint finishes.

  
A slight smile creeps halfway across John’s face. " ‘Then, with your will, go on.' "

  
Flint nods and fixates on his hands, pulling his ring halfway off and slipping it back on again. “If you believe in this way, that men are capable of using the chaos around them to exact their will,” he looks up at John, a tiny wrinkle between his brows giving way to thoughtfulness, “then why does your role in this current course of action give you such pause?”

Was it that obvious? And here John thought he’d been playing it off quite well. He takes a deep breath but tries not to let his shoulders rise with it. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. He is not the only one who wields the power of perception in this relationship. He let’s the breath out slowly so that it has a better chance of going undetected. Still, he tries. “Well, you believe in fate yet strive to control all aspects of it. To follow a man with such an inner conflict is not exactly an easy endeavor.”

A mild disappointment dulls the thirst in Flint’s eyes as John purposely leaves himself out of the answer. He did have a unique way of turning the tables when what was being offered no longer served him.

Maybe he should have admitted to Flint how lost he truly feels; how unconfident he has become in his abilities to persuade this crew to move with the strong gusts of wind their Captain has a knack for creating. He understood that this was the answer Flint was after, but in choosing to connect with him in such a way, in choosing honesty, he’d have to admit his part in the theft of the gold as well.

Instead he chooses to deflect, and maybe rightfully so. He still hadn’t made his choice yet. And why should he offer up any more of himself when Flint remained so guarded?

Flint reaches for his rum. “The Walrus will depart as soon as we refit and get wind of the next unfortunate soul who likens himself to Peter Ashe,” he shares. “Hopefully, dear Brutus, you’ll have decided by then whether or not you care to get onboard.”

He hands his glass to a dumbfounded John and makes to retire for the night.

“Fuck,” John whispers into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands,
> 
> We're back with the second installment of angst on angst on angst and I've switched to chapters for this particular stage of grief. Anger, as it turns out, is an emotional hydra.
> 
> Feedback is always tremendously appreciated ♡
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets, 
> 
> [Trinity](http://crucifythenburn.tumblr.com/)


	2. Impetuosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One quick thrust, one muffled groan, one labored breath later, John is standing unassisted for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still set between 2.10 and 3.01. The Fucking Warship has made it back to Nassau.

**_I don't want this._ **

_If it doesn't come off quickly, you won't make it three days._

**_Did you not fucking hear me?! I said I do not want this!_ **

_You'll die. This way, there's a very good chance to prevent it._

_The crew will look after you. Don't worry about that._  

_Hold him down._

 

John awakens to the jarring tone of his own hoarse trumpet, trembling fingers clenching round clumps of damp blanket. He takes a breath. It's thick and heavy, sticks to the dryness at the back of his throat as he swallows. Much to his relief, he is alone in the cabin.

It’s quiet with all the men ashore, but John finds it anything but peaceful. He sits up and swings his legs over the side of his bed, dipping his foot into a bucket of water to see if it’s still warm. Though John could count the words Flint has said to him over the past few days, there would still be a bucket of fresh water, a bar of soap, and a clean rag beside his bedroll every morning, along with another book for an ever-growing pile atop the ledge behind him where he’d sometimes rest his head. It quickly became something on the long list of somethings living wordless lives between them.

He still isn’t quite ready to leave the ship, to brave Nassau as half the man he used to be, but Flint hasn't so much as hinted at needing his help since their initial conversation. As much as John hates to admit it, this isn't like the time Flint was being challenged by Hornigold. Flint doesn't need him this time. The story of Charles Town will tell itself without any help from him, and the men - the men will be eager to write tales of their own vengeance and heroism into the future stories of New Providence Island, with or without John selling them the fancy quill and ink.

For the first time in a long time, John wonders how to make himself useful again.

He reaches down and dunks the rag into the lukewarm water, rinses out the excess, and places it delicately against his wound. Why should he care what the men thought of him? If Flint found him useful or irrelevant was no longer his concern. He had the gold. He'd done it. He need only reach out and take it now.

John breathes deep and shuts his eyes, but his exhale turns choppy before he can finish the first pass of cloth over his wretched stump. He squeezes the rag tightly between his fingers, drops of fleshy pink water seeping out over his knuckles and onto the floor below. 

He’s tired. Tired of being in pain, tired of being weak, tired of feeling useless. A twinge of inadequacy shoots through him. He takes yet another sulfurous inhalation of regret, a tumultuous sea of his own reproach rendering him adrift whenever he’s awake, alive. And the nightmares. God, the nightmares! John has woken himself spitting and thrashing upon that window ledge more often than he cares to admit, unsure of whether he was drenched in sweat or piss. 

He’s becoming used to the darkness - the overwhelming sense of desertion by God and man - but he still worries that one night Flint will wake also, find him crying and cursing in his sleep, somehow think him less of a man. He rubs his eyes then slides his hand over his mouth as if there is some terrible secret he is desperate to keep. His body caves into itself. Gusts of aching surrender shake his chest; pools of frustration blur his vision. 

What was it all for really? This suffering masquerading as a life. What was this inexplicable need etched into the hearts of men to continue on despite the monstrous indifference of the world? He could leave. He could take his share of the gold and disappear, but what kind of life would he lead now? John, the one-legged creature. He wonders - he fights back a sob and he wonders - if anything is worth this much pain. If life's worth living in a body that’s a cage.

 

_Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter?_

 

_You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?_

 

John contemplates the table at the side of the room, then fixes the prosthetic limb Howell has fashioned for him with a look just as resentful. He grabs his crutches and lifts himself up onto one trembling leg, arms sore and palms calloused from having to learn how to carry the bulk of his weight upon them. He settles their wood on either side of himself and hobbles over to the bookshelf to grab the boot leaning beside it, trades a crutch for it before hopping over and collapsing into Flint’s chair.

It matters. Sitting in the Captain’s chair, staring out over his desk at the door John has not been through in weeks, it matters what he decides to do next. This is a Captain’s view - save for the glossy haze of John’s tears this is what Flint sees - and it is partially so because of John’s help.

The thought of it feels funny at first, pushes into John's mind feather-like, ticklish even.

 

He matters here?

 

It's silly. But after spending his life trying to fill the emptiness with materials and flesh, the very idea of pursuing something greater than himself begins to tempt him with a sense of purpose which feels completely foreign. 

 

He matters here.

 

He thumbs the corners of his eyes and grips the prosthesis, doing his best to ease his stump past the grab of the leather. His eyelids squeeze shut as he prepares for the sudden spike of pain which is sure to follow once the hide gives way. One quick thrust, one muffled groan, one labored breath later, John is standing unassisted for the first time in weeks.

His first step is - _fuck_! The feeling is torturesome; the sensation like slicing off another measure of flesh. He braces against the desk, rethinks the choice, a fond remembrance of the angels of mercy he'd once considered pain.  _Just make it to the table_ , he tells himself. _Two more steps._

 

_One..._ A bear trap snaps and chews the gnarly pound of flesh. 

 

 

 _Two_...  It sinks its jaws deeper, raw nerves and teeth enmeshed.

 

 

A cold sweat greets him sorely at the other side of his efforts. He feels no pride. His predicament does not allow for rejoicing, but if John is certain of anything in this unpredictable existence, it is his capacity to endure. He’d endured the death of his mother, the abandonment of his older siblings, homelessness, utter solitude in an unforgiving world, suicidal thoughts… and he’d endure the loss of his leg. He’d endure because he doesn’t know how to do anything else, no matter what the dark whispers of his mind may have hinted at in his most isolated of hours. John is a survivor. That infectious smile did not come without its price.

He stares down at the wooden table top and catches his breath, trailing a finger around a spot of dried blood. As much as he wishes the opposite, he can still recall with great vividness the day he was made to lay across it. But the ghost of the sledgehammer crushing his bones has nothing on that which haunts him the most.

He’s seen it happen a million times since then. The unrolling of the instruments, the force of countless hands and arms holding down his body, the first slice through his flesh, the fingering of blood vessels and sawed bone, the pressure of the sponge pressed against his raw skin, the stitching of the flaps, the thud of his dismembered limb hitting the floor... 

What he wouldn’t give to have been hit on the head instead.

John straightens himself up and takes a slow, deep breath. He looks toward the door of the cabin, the conflicting weight of stubborn mind and limp body wearing heavily upon him. He can almost hear Dr. Howell telling him that he is not yet healed enough to begin use of the prosthetic, but he wipes his face, takes a step, and pulls open the door anyway. 

He makes a long-suffering trek through the bowels of the ship, each step a singular fight all its own. By the time he reaches the door to the deck he’s sure his leg is properly swollen, but there is no way in seven hells he is about to turn back now.

The dawn hits him more forcefully than he would have gathered from its cloudy overtones throughout the cabin. John takes a moment to let his eyes adjust to the new slivers of light before he traipses onto the deck, finds his focus on a dark silhouette. Flint. He’s by the mainmast finishing a knot for the rigging which John distinctly remembers opposing. John approaches slowly, taking extra care not to utilize the rope on the unsteady ship out of nothing less than sheer spite. He almost expects the Captain to quip about him being up and off the windowsill, almost wants to make a defensive joke about it himself but “I said I didn’t want this” comes out instead.

“Then don’t use it,” Flint nods flippantly, the stiff collar of his leather coat barely folding under his chin. John gives him a look but Flint begins to stare up at the topgallant before he can seem to catch it. “The wind is picking up,” he continues, unfazed.

John follows Flint’s gaze up the mast then out to sea, trying his best to keep the pain in his leg from finding a direct route to his face, “I suppose I should speak with the men before that storm rolls in and delays us any further.” He gestures toward the cloud bank with a slight lift of his chin.

Flint, perhaps taking note of the subtle hesitation in John’s voice, chooses to focus his attention on his Quartermaster instead. John allows the small silence hanging between them to fill him with a familiar type of warmth just as their eyes meet. A second later he is watching the Captain’s lips as they maneuver around the words, “You’ve decided?”

John briefly looks away, barely nods, wishing the trappings of his heart no courage to break free. 

Flint is quiet for a moment. “I understand your reservations, but your reluctance to step into the role those men have chosen for you does nothing to change the fact that they’ve already imagined you in it.” He turns slightly toward John. “Your actions have inspired them to trust you.”

“Inspired?” John scoffs, wrapping his hand around the very rope he’d protested. “What exactly is inspiring about doing nothing while a member of your crew gets shot directly in front of you?”

Flint lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps continuing to resist - to tempt fate even after you’ve become the only man left to shoot.”

John raises his eyes to meet Flint’s, unaware of how the set of his shoulders and neck have reacted to the intangible shame of his own words until he must lift his head to do so. It sounded eerily like praise, but it surely couldn’t have been. 

As it goes, John still isn’t entirely sure himself what exactly had provoked him to protect the men. Perhaps it was the way the vaguely familiar words ‘our brother’ hit his ears when he was being taken away. Or perhaps a knob inside of him was on the fritz, turned from the self preservation setting and snapped off completely by a cruel twist of fate. The latter was much more likely.

Flint wets his lips as if he is trying to choose his words carefully but ultimately decides otherwise. “I happen to recall a young man who sat in front of me and told me that he had an exceptionally low tolerance for pain; that he’d say anything to make it stop.”

John feels his heart flip as Flint leans forward, tilts his head toward John’s ear, bringing him into the type of space meant only for people who are familiar with each other.

“So I’m having a bit of trouble understanding,” Flint says softly, “did he lie to the man with the sword or the man with the sledgehammer?”

He allows just a bit of softness to creep in around the corners of his eyes and mouth - just enough to let John know he means no slight by the question. And John notices it. Fuck, does he notice it. He shifts to regain the distance between them. “I also said that we might be friends by now,” he quips.

Flint walks around him, placing a hand on John’s shoulder as he passes. “Not on your life."

John sighs short and tries to hold back a grin but one edge of his mouth betrays him. He examines the deck then the sails until his smirk fades away, taking note of their pockets of fullness even as the canvases are tied securely to their yards. He turns to Flint and quietly watches him consider a far off point in the ocean and clasp his wrist behind his back. The lightness of the moment allows for one grateful breath before Flint decides to speak again. “The magistrate in Martinique has hanged a man for piracy.”

John blinks out of his spell, limps over to the side of the ship to make sure he’s heard Flint clearly. “When?”

He asks but he knows - just as Flint’s silence confirms - that the answer is unimportant. He studies the Captain as his green eyes disappear behind an eagle-like squint, the pale purples of the rising sun beneath the stormclouds catching his attention.

“He must answer for it,” John concludes, thickening his voice to compete with the sound of the crashing waves around him - and it feels strange rolling off his tongue, unseasoned, like a language he's just beginning to learn. His need to prove his worth tugs at him, or perhaps, simply the need for Flint to acknowledge such a value in him even exists.

And then there’s what John hopes Flint doesn’t notice yet has little strength to hide: all the subtle ways in which his mangled body wears his want.

Flint scrutinizes him wearing that calculating expression, an intensity in his eyes that causes John to have to grip the side of the ship to keep from reaching out, and John has to remember to breathe before he can form words again - a breath to replace the one he’d lost seconds before while admiring Flint’s profile a bit too closely. 

It’s never the right time; it’s never going to be. There will always be something urgent to discuss, always some distraction pushing John’s feelings onto the back burner, and honestly, how is John supposed to focus on his responsibilities with so much left unsaid between the Captain and he? It would be almost irresponsible of him to let what happened between them fester any longer, right?

John's fingers twitch with the memory of being tangled in Flint's hair, cupping the back of his head as they shared hurried breaths between hungry kisses. He longs to pull him close once again, searches his eyes for a shred of tacit permission to act upon his unspoken desires. But Flint's eyes leave his wanting. He is too far away.

John shifts against the rail of the ship, surveys the storm looming before them both. 

“I don’t think they can do this without you,” Flint admits into the wind. 

Somewhere between the gold and the leg, John made a wrong turn, wandered off the beaten path toward securing his own future and stumbled upon the winding road toward becoming a proper pirate. But John also desires more than to be twisted into the stories told of The Walrus crew and their fearless Captain. He can almost feel the cold, hard sting of gold between his fingers, and with it, the taste of freedom.

And yet…

These glimpses into what lies just beyond the surface. The ocean between them which still remains unexplored. The spell that Captain Flint has managed to cast over him. John is dizzy with doubt, and an ever-growing need to remain, if nothing else, a valuable tool for the frustratingly hypnotic man beside him.

He searches Flint’s eyes the way he always seems to do when he’s unsure. And they find his, the way they always seem to do when words float through the air which may land just a bit too roughly against the other’s ear.

“I’ll address the men at sundown,” John decides at once.

Flint concurs after a long pause, glancing at John’s leg. “I’ll have them gather here. You needn’t make the trip to shore just yet.”

He only witnesses it for a second, but John still feels the self-conscious need to redirect Flint’s attention elsewhere. He scratches at his growing beard, something else which has managed to escape his consideration until just now.

“Not necessary. I can make the trip.”

Flint turns. “I didn't mean --”

“It's alright,” John says abruptly.

“It should be done aboard the ship,” Flint insists. “And we should discuss what you’re going to say.”

“Again, not necessary. The men don't assign much difference between a ship and a town, not with the haul from a town like that being so significant. It’s not a difficult case to make.”

Flint’s shoulders rise and fall as he cycles through a deep breath, that familiar fidget of his thumb giving John all the information he needs.

 

He’s unsure, too.

 

“I'll leave you to your preparations,” Flint says, turning from John almost hastily.

John reaches out and grabs Flint’s arm with all the courage he can muster. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks without looking. “Are you certain you're ready - to start a war?”

The lingering silence between them gradually beckons his attention. John peers at Flint carefully, those eyes staring back somehow managing to scream a fit of anger from beyond the patina of melancholy sunken through his skin. And John wants to reel his Captain in, to save him from the murky depths of an inevitable self destruction, but the desire in and of itself gives him nothing but pause. He understands just how ridiculous it is; how impossible such a thing would even be to accomplish. There is but one simple truth: The moment they killed Miranda - they killed themselves.

  
Flint grabs John's hand and gently pulls it from its grip upon his sleeve. “This war... began in Charles Town,” he corrects. He lets go of John’s hand and straightens his coat. “The questions of our future will no longer be settled by means of speeches and majority decisions, Mr. Silver. They will be settled with iron and blood.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands, 
> 
> Chapter 3 is coming. Promise. Those tags are totally legit. Sorry for not putting all 3 chapters out together. I tried to give myself a deadline but adulting is hard. Forgive me. T_T 
> 
>  
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. 
> 
>  
> 
> ♡♡♡Thanks for reading ♡♡♡  
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets, 
> 
> [Trinity](http://crucifythenburn.tumblr.com/)


	3. Vehemence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And John should probably recalculate the distance between them - for the safety of his leg, for propriety, for the simple fact that he already knows what adding dead air and proximity to this equation amounts to - but he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still set between 2.10 and 3.1. Before John is due to address the men about the upcoming raids.
> 
> This part kind of grew into more than I'd intended, so I had to split it into 2 chapters. I'm not even mad though. Please watch your step, and mind the cliffs ;)

  
The deck sways beneath him with more bravura than he remembers. Then again, it’s only been a half-day that John’s been up on two legs, and having to master the shift of his weight against a solitary stilt would be challenging enough on a surface that wasn’t actually moving. He uses one crutch in reluctant compromise.

Flint crosses his arms and leans into the wall just by the open window at the side of the cabin. “I agree with Howell. You should not be using the leg just yet.”

 _Well, seeing as how no one actually asked you…_ “I’m fine,” John says matter-of-factly, hobbling over to fetch his coat.

He’s had nothing but time alone in this cabin, nothing but hours in silent reflection of the books and buckets supplementing the Captain’s poignant absence. And as such, John makes no effort to be a party to Flint’s attention now. How it still manages to permeate his newly and purposefully thickened skin is also wholly, and entirely, and _completely_ irrelevant.

“That may be so,” Flint reasons, “but one may also be inclined to believe that you are intentionally setting yourself up for failure.”

John gives Flint a dismissive look. “Right, I’m quite sorry. How exactly did _you_ behave when _you_ lost a limb?”

A knock at the door announces the arrival of a third. “Captain?”

“Yes,” Flint answers, his eyes still trained on John.

Billy slips in and shuts the door behind him as if he’s just walked in on something private. “The men are all present and accounted for.”

John is quick to discard the crutch, leaning it against Flint’s desk as inconspicuously as his painful balance will allow. He shrugs into his coat as Billy approaches, the taller man fixing his mouth to speak but taking a few seconds as his eyes travel down the length of the Quartermaster’s makeshift limb. Tensions gather in John’s jaw. He wants desperately to pretend that he doesn’t notice, but he takes note of Billy’s inspection anyway. And shit, he should probably get used to it. There’s no doubt in his mind that there are eighty-something greetings of a similar torment lying in wait upon the wood of the gun deck.

Billy’s been staring for some time now, hasn’t he? It sure as hell feels like forever. John’s eyes float about in agonizing awareness until they meet Flint’s, but the focus he’s wearing offers no confirmation. Flint studies Billy instead, one hand curled over his mouth in that special way John has come to regard as his Captain’s own particular brand of brooding.

Flint rubs the edge of his beard with the pad of his thumb, glances at the obvious uneasiness framing John’s impossibly blue eyes, but chooses to say nothing in the way of actual comfort. “Was there anything else?” he asks instead, breaking the awkward silence.

“They think you've fallen ill,” says Billy, finally peeking up from beneath John's knee and addressing the man properly. His eyes grow wide and alert. “Others have guessed that you're leaving the crew.”

A short breath answers from the side of the room, like the beginning of a laugh Flint's decided not to finish, and John thinks it must be the closest he's seen the man to smiling in weeks.

“Well, I can’t say I hadn't thought about it,” John admits, pausing to see if Flint cares to interject again.

Billy splits a look between the pair of them. “Are you?”

“...I’m sorry?”

“Leaving,” Billy clarifies. “Is that what this is all about?”

“No,” John assures, words much less hesitant than his actual feelings. He laces tight fists around the opening of his coat and jerks it forward about his shoulders as if it were some type of subconscious armor between he and the man in front of him. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Billy nods but doesn’t turn to leave before giving them both a good once-over.

John sets himself onto the edge of Flint’s desk to relieve the pressure on his aching limb, but takes special care not to make too big a fuss about it. “He doesn’t believe me,” he says just after the door shuts.

“I can’t say that I particularly blame him.”

John crinkles an eyebrow. _Is that right? Arrogant bast_ \-- “Is there something you’d like to say?” he cuts in over himself.

Flint pulls himself from against the oak wall without bothering to respond. The silence which mocks a reply to the query forces multiple crimps to creep through John’s features, but the look falls precariously by the wayside as Flint stands beside John to pour himself a drink. And John should probably recalculate the distance between them - for the safety of his leg, for propriety, for the simple fact that he already knows what adding dead air and proximity to this equation amounts to - but he doesn’t.

The cabin is scantily lit with the final embers of a dying sun still clinging to life in its corners, but John’s focus narrows to Flint’s movements for reasons other than the failing light. Flint presses a cup to John’s chest as he speaks. “Far be it from me to call attention to any man’s self-deception, John, but for you, it’s hardly a proper disguise.”

John takes the cup, disallowing his fingers to linger while his instincts whisper otherwise. The name rings much louder than the accusation flanking it. _John._ He’s momentarily taken aback by the sound of Flint’s rough voice wrapped around it; how it separates itself from the gentle flow of alcohol hitting a glass beside him and a soft complaint from the creaky ship. John puts the cup to his lips before he speaks, as if it were somehow possible to sneak the inflection of the upcoming lie into the hollow of it. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”

The surprising smell of fermented grapes hits him just after the first swallow. He’d been expecting more rum.

Flint nods his head stiffly. “I believe we’ve already skirted this discussion, but for the sake of argument I’ll make myself plain.” His eyes lock onto John’s with a clearly intentional fierceness, and John would be lying if he’d said he’d gulped down his wine so quickly because of the taste.

“We make a course for Martinique in two days time,” Flint sternly continues. “Two days, of which the main focus will be developing a strategy and revising our tactics for an assault on a town as opposed to a ship. Meetings will take place with the vanguard, and Billy at the helm. We would like for you to be a part of those meetings...”

Flint pauses unexpectedly, the hesitant transition of thoughts to words pulls his lips into a tight line and his eyes away from John, and John tries his damndest not to react. He wants so badly to jump ten steps ahead, but he’s suddenly more concerned with how Flint’s body language seems to be in stark disagreement with his tone. John squints and watches as Flint reaches for his drink and idly swirls the wine in the glass until its crimson streaks settle back into a pool, perhaps trying to account for a lack of words with pointless and empty actions.

“We would like for you to be a part of those meetings,” Flint repeats, “but it seems he and I both happen to suspect that you may very well be abandoning this crew before such a time as we are able to bring those plans to fruition.” He looks over at John again, eyes landing with much less vehemence. “And if this much is true, I am asking you,” he sighs, “for the sake of the crew - for your own sake - to just fucking get on with it.”

John blinks in confusion. “You spoke about me with Billy?” he asks, a slight edge of indignation framing his words.

Flint straightens up a bit, puzzled. “Is that _really_ all you gathered from that?”

“Well - no,” John shakes his head, “but I’ve already assured you I have nothing to hide. If I seem a bit _off_ it’s because of the obvious.” He gives a quick glance to his ironside. “But my reservations on this matter aren’t personal, of _that_ you can be certain.”

It’s honestly quite amazing how well adapted John is to lying through his teeth. Normal people have a tell: a twitch, a blink, a stiffness which suggests their discomfort with the implications of dishonestly. But such trifles never cross John’s mind. When it comes to thought and emotion, they are wholly separate entities, and as such John convinces himself he has no qualms lying to Flint’s face whenever it should suit him. In fact, he’s hard-pressed to recall any instance when he’s ever even thought twice about it.

Flint takes a sip of wine and exhales his satisfaction with it, but when his eyes venture over to John again, he seems less than amused. “If you are wavering in any way--” he starts.

“I’m not wavering. I--”

“-- do not make this address.”

“-- simply have some concerns about--"

“You will only shake their faith in the cause.”

“-- whether or not this is the best course of action.”

“Do I need to explain what the word ‘wavering’ means?”

John frowns. “I understand what you need me to do,” he says smoothly, deliberately, and the half blink cradling Flint’s tired eyes perks up. “But I also understand - and, do correct me if I’m wrong here - that it is my responsibility to question it.”

“It is,” Flint nods, taking another sip of wine and finally offering up some personal space for John again. “But you and I both know that there is much more at play here than your convoluted sense of duty.”

Flint sets his glass down with a louder clink than John feels is necessary, and grabs his coat from off of the back of his chair. Did he know about John’s share of the gold? John _would_ be remiss in forgetting so soon his very own words to Flint. Just after they’d taken the warship together and the men had voted to have their sentences commuted, he’d told Flint that he may very well cross him should their interests ever conflict. That being said, it seems quite plausible for Flint to have put the pieces together: a capricious thief just happens to catch wind of a plan to steal the gold but has _nothing at all_ to do with it? And all of this after Flint lies to said thief's face when his dedication to seizing said gold is called into question? The thought is even stretched too thin for John to spin believable.

John shakes his head, freeing himself from the outer ring of a constant mental circus. “Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I’ve been doubting my abilities?” he deflects.

He turns to watch Flint as he circles back around to the front of his desk, darker now, courtesy of the longcoat and the voiceless inquisition resting beneath his brows. And John knows the look all too well. He’ll need to be careful here. Each word he now plants but a mine in the field of an already diffident trust.

John sits his glass atop the desk. “They may have elected me their new Quartermaster, but it’s quite clear to me that you don’t trust me, and whatsmore, you don’t respect me. And as far as Quartermaster’s go, I have yet to forget what’s become of the last one.”

So much for _careful_.

Flint’s glare softens and falls to the corner of the room. His lips part with the air of words he ultimately decides against, thoughts flashing across his face with similar resignation. He blinks up at John. “If you fear yourself unable to handle the responsibilities of the title, you aren’t required to hold it.”

John peeks at his leg. “Well - where else would I ‘wake up in the morning and matter?' ”

John’s voice wreaks of a type of vitriol he pretends does not feel foreign. Flint huffs out a sound of disregard, turns his head the way of his rolling eyes, quirks his mouth to speak but John absconds with the Captain’s chance to put any words behind his mercurial actions.

“You asked me something once,” John continues. And the lack of respect bothers Flint, or at least it seems to, if the complicated twist of wrinkles fighting for purchase amongst his sharp features offer any indication of how well John actually understands the man. “You asked if I thought they’d likened you to the villain. But I had hoped you might have considered the other side of this coin by now.”

“And what is that?” Flint asks half-heartedly.

“The unequivocal burden of being seen as the hero.”

Flint’s eyebrows stitch in bemusement, that half-smile curling up well into his cheek. “You think you’re the hero?”

 _Not exactly, but,_ “The men certainly do.”

Apparently having his fill of John’s cursory tone, Flint moves from the spot where John’s words had pinned him, grabs his cup and finishes its contents. Save for the look of incredulity he wears as he makes to leave the cabin, his silence on the matter is quite curious to John, and maybe even insulting. He hasn’t quite decided yet.

The fluctuation of John’s ire is also - curious, to say the least, and never more so than when Flint is close. Since the beginning, the man has had this way about him that quite simply drove John fucking mad, but to which side such madness would lean was largely decided in terms of distance. Whenever Flint is close, it seems, John’s aforementioned ability to separate thought from emotion becomes increasingly difficult.

“You told me," says John, "that your priority has always been and will always be the welfare of the men." And Flint stops walking. “Yet, here you are, asking me to help you lead them into the makings of an impossible war - and for what?”

“For what?” Flint repeats in awe. He turns to face the culprit. “For them. For the freedom of Nassau.”

“Oh, come off it!” John shouts. “You don’t give a shit about Nassau.”

“And you don’t give a shit about those men,” Flint says flatly.

John pushes up from the edge of Flint’s desk and takes a step forward, almost doesn't even feel the way his leg protests the deed. “I have risked life and limb for those men. It’s my job to protect them.”

And he wants to look away in that moment, just a second to figure out where the fuck the sentence came from, but he doesn't have a second - not with Flint three feet away, not with this shark circling him, scrutinizing his every fumbling move. John knows he can smell blood now, feels Flint's eyes float over him as his own focus drifts away - _just a second, let me think_ \- but he plugs the flood of thought, keeps his eyes set in a glare, trains his face to remain unflinchingly resolved in this new sentiment.

 _Did he catch it_?

Flint nods, finally manages a true smile but it is mostly predatory. _He caught it_. “Then explain to me why you confine yourself to this ship and _cower_.”

"I'm not entirely sure. Perhaps for the same reasons that you do," John needles, frustration clipping the edges of better judgment. "Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

Flint tilts his head minutely. “I’m sorry?”

“Grief?” John asks. And the word is sour and rancid but fuck, it’s actually the truth this time. “Self-pity? Anger? Regret? Fear? Guilt. It's guilt isn't it?”

What begins as self-reflection promptly snowballs into accusations, and Flint appears to grow angrier with every word added to the offending list. But it isn’t John’s intention to turn the tables this time - not really. It’s a defense mechanism; one he is usually never ashamed to employ, except, of course, for those times when he is. Those times that feel a hell of a lot like this time right now.

At the mere mention of guilt Flint’s bottom jaw juts forward almost imperceptibly. Purposeful blinks and a deep breath threaten to disarm an otherwise vicious demeanor. He turns for the door for the second time, but Flint’s refusal to engage John along the dangerous line currently being toed only kindles a blaze of desperation - a flame which John absolutely refuses to concede the capability of housing.

“My point is - we’ve both lost things,” John backtracks, “valuable things and - and I don’t know about you, but I believe we need to deal with those losses privately, away from the prying eyes of those who may wish to use it in order to exploit us. That’s why I’ve been… cowering. And I believe that’s why you’ve been on this ship with me far more than you’ve been on that beach.”

The cabin falls dreadfully silent. John's heartbeat thumps in his ears, interrupted only by a subtle shake in Flint's breath as he thinks? Feels? Prepares to kill him? John tries to swallow but his mouth has gone dry.

He doesn’t ever mean to compare the loss of his limb to the loss of Mrs. Barlow, but there, caught in the undertow of an emotional wreckage, he finds that he must blindly navigate an inexplicable pull toward the other man’s shores. His thoughts rush over him as waves, drowning him in their crushing depths.

He remembers Miranda: The soft way she regarded Flint, whispered to him, smiled knowingly at him when she thought no one was watching. And he remembers Flint - the way his eyes would narrow when she spoke, how his hand would find the small of her back whenever they'd walk together. That voyage to Charles Town to return Abigail Ashe was more than just the catalyst of an irreversible series of unfortunate events. It was a glimpse into a man called _James_ \- a man John hazards to believe he may have had the pleasure of being intimate with once already.

If the trembling John held in his hands while he cupped James’ face that afternoon told John anything about the man, it was that _Captain_ _Flint_ is just a facade for something fathoms deeper. To be sure, John’s infatuation had begun with his need to understand the man to whom he'd affixed the successful retrieval of one substantial payday, but just after that heated exchange within the very walls of this cabin, John witnessed the transformation happen directly in front of him. He watched a beautiful, thoughtful man who was almost too afraid to kiss him, who talked with him about the hidden demons behind shame, who made John actually feel _seen_ instead of simply ogled, become cold and calculating in as little time as it’d taken for him to pull up his trousers. And since then John has longed to catch another glimpse of him, the man he’d seen during those fleeting moments spent sandwiched between Flint and his furniture, but that man has yet to resurface.

John makes sure to keep some compassion in his eyes when he fixates them on Flint, unnerved by the lack of any in return.

Fists clench at Flint’s sides, his outrage carved deep into the chiseled profile looming just above his solid shoulder. And maybe John should be afraid. But the veil of fury is far too thin, hinting at something that’s miraculously close to resembling vulnerability. John takes a step toward him, the desire to locate the man behind the monster gripping tighter than the fear of cornering him.

“I am not the one for whom you have a speech to deliver,” Flint repels from over his shoulder. “I suggest you get on with it.”

Flint pulls open the door, but John refuses to let this become the part where they split the air between them, where Flint exhales something of displeasure and John the quiet sigh of yet another failed attempt at communication. He moves toward him.

  
“Wait,” he whispers, pushing the door shut.


	4. Paroxysm

He’d resolved weeks ago, after a well hatched plan and a good night's rest, that what happened between them was an isolated incident. Flint had been clear. John had refocused. And no further discussion was necessary.  
  
But then, Jenks happened.  
  
And with such misfortune came the inevitable fits of resentment. On bad days they’d bubble at John’s core, mixing themselves in unforgivingly amongst remnants of an all too inchoate liaison. God, how he’d longed to separate the ways in which Flint had been soft with him: how he’d smiled at John when nothing was funny, how he’d fetched John books and warm water, how he’d tied ropes throughout the ship so John could move about it easier, and protested John’s desire to use the false leg prematurely. These were all painfully obvious signs that Flint actually gave a shit about John, but honestly, to what end? Was it only so long as John remained useful to him?

He doesn’t mean to. Inside he’s terrified and the word is a bitter cry, but it falls out soft and pleading nonetheless. _Wait_. A sharp awareness bares its teeth. Flint can easily toss him aside, but John presses a palm firmly into the door and lets the desire to give him that choice leap over the painful gnaw of rejection.

Flint turns his face away, this game they play of trying to crack one another open while they themselves remain in tact so obviously beginning to wear on them both.

“Look at me, James.”

Flint almost cringes at the sound of his name, forces his eyes shut. John pulls Flint’s hand from the handle of the door and rubs a thumb over the tendons above his knuckles. He chances to bring Flint’s face toward his, but the sensation proves too much.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Flint demands, pushing a forearm into John’s throat and pinning him to the door. He stares at John from below strained brows, his shoulders heaving with words unsaid, his face tensing into a twitch. “Do not confuse our exploits with the notion that you understand anything--” he pauses, snarls, pushes deeper into John’s neck, “ _anything_ about me.”

John nods hurriedly, as much as he can actually make a nod happen from this position. “I’m sorry,” he struggles, dread mounting within his chest as the handle of Flint’s blade digs pitilessly into his rib. “I was only--”

“Sorry?” Flint pants through bared teeth. He lifts his arm up into John’s tonsils, cutting off the flow of breath and blood. “If there is any reason why I shouldn’t skewer you where you stand for mistaking my words for pleasantries, you had better name it with whatever breath you have left.”

John stares into the wildness that is his Captain’s eyes, faint gasps mingling with angry breaths, heart racing with how the vague scent of wine amidst salt-sprayed leather is quickly becoming the last thing he will ever smell. What happens next, he’s yet to forget: how his eyes go hazy and his throat grows numb and his dick--

John efforts to swallow.

Flint flicks his eyes to the sensation of the small knot in John’s throat pushing valiantly against his ulna; the sound of metal scraping haphazardly against the deck just beneath them catches his attention shortly thereafter. He appears to consider John’s leg, but the rest of his face stays rigid and sharp, still jumping at one side with wrathful tumult.

John opens his mouth to speak but the words haven’t the strength to claw their way past the pinch in his windpipe. Panic begins to weave through the pain. A glassy haze creeps in and catches in a leaky pool against the ridge of his nose. His fingers find a frantic slide along the frayed seams of Flint’s coat and quickly become the only things anchoring him to the world of the living. His chest burns with the need for air, but he refuses to fight for it. _Maybe it’s better this way_ , he thinks, before the blackness edging inward claims him.

Above all, these facts remained: Flint had lied to John about the gold being a priority, he’d used John to further his own agenda under the guise of mutual interests, he’d toyed with John and continued to treat him as if his value were nonexistent anywhere outside of The Walrus. And no amount of books given, or buckets filled, or riggings tied, or feigned concern, or pregnant gazes will _ever_ force these undeniable facts into their favorable darkness. John has more than half a mind, should he survive this, to disappear with his share of the gold and never fucking look back. _Fuck. James. Flint._ If it weren’t for him John would still have a leg.

John shuts his eyes and suddenly a flash of white engulfs him. He coughs something ghastly as the vice under his chin loosens its grip and allows him the dignity of setting himself right atop his dangling leg. A wheeze and a dizzying headrush pull his eyelids open. John reaches for his neck, a reflex, but an arm is still there.

Flint remains a broiling heap splayed against John, either unwilling or unable to fully abandon the assault. John fills his sails again, finds Flint’s eyes within the wreckage, but the treasure buried therein is one John does not immediately collect. The ocean pressed from knee to chest against him sways minutely. John stares into the abyss, aghast, amazed by what stares back.

 _Remorse_?

John’s throat burns as he catches his breath, unable to make any sense of the strange appearance at first. Flint’s eyes dart across John’s face and the moment drowns in an instant. A countering wave of contempt crashes over whatever expression had surfaced despite Flint’s most optimal efforts.

But John would not be John if he were ever so easily fooled. He’s already watched the armor fall away from his Captain once before. What if - what if he could actually remove another layer himself…? The thought causes a broken breath to tumble from his mouth.

He slowly, _slowly_ ventures to peel Flint’s arm from across his tender neck. Flint stiffens, eyes sullen. A protesting breath and reluctant muscles push back in response. Flint looks between his arm and John in a desperate kind of defiance.

“It’s alright,” John forgives, voice scabrous and unfinished.

Flint’s eyes clap to John's and dangle there perilously, like the sword of Damocles hanging by its swaying thread. And John knows he should be upset, should be cursing, spitting, clawing, but he somehow understands. There is a reason why Flint did not allow him to go the way of Mr. Gates, a reason hiding in the eyes now staring daggers through him. The realization prompts a subtle tug at one corner of John's mouth before he can manage to stop it.

He doesn’t recognize the mustache pressed against his own at first. The hand that sweeps up into his hair is almost equally as foreign. But when Flint trades his forearm for fingers at the base of John’s neck, John begins to remember the whispers of their covert body language. And all at once his fear begins a dangerous dance with passion.

Flint kisses him roughly, almost angrily, as if the act in and of itself is one of staunch retaliation. And John is thunderstruck, paralyzed, unable to manage anything other than erratic blinking. He lifts his hands to touch, to grab, to push - he’s not sure what - but he pulls them back in uncertain fists, suffocated in the weight of the moment. He sinks his nails into the door instead, bruising meetings of their mouths causing it to rattle behind his head.

“Is this what you want?” Flint breathes.

John halfway thinks it’s a trap but a guttural and resounding “Yes” still escapes his mouth and crawls from beneath the prison of his Captain’s lips.

“Fuck you,” Flint heaves, his eyes pressed shut as if it hurts to say.

He bites into John’s bottom lip all but shattering him with memories of such a time before. There was something about the pain, something nestled deep between the strong line of their clashing bodies, something waiting to pounce behind a team of fingernails and teeth. John falters. Flint’s blade is not the only thing pressing into him this time.

“Fuck” he sighs into Flint’s mouth.

He slips his hands under Flint’s coat and tugs at the back of his shirt, longing for the heat of his amply covered skin. The warmth that greets him causes him to wonder if his hands feel cold, but the heat that drives them wins that bout with worry soon enough. He sweeps his palms up Flint’s back and around toward his chest, forcing his shirt completely untucked.

“I fucking - told you,” Flint manages between forceful kisses, hand firm and demanding against John’s neck.

“What?” John huffs, cupping either side of Flint’s face, undivided concern in his eyes. He runs a thumb over the muscle jumping high and tense in his cheek. “What did you tell--”

Flint pulls John into him with the hand he still has tangled in his unruly curls, turns his head a bit to slot their mouths together more convincingly, and _Christ, shut up, John. Just let him..._ “Fuck you,” Flint growls, flattening John into the door behind him. “I told you.”

“What did you tell me?” John asks again, hand cautiously slipping down to the front of Flint’s trousers, rubbing and fumbling through the fabric.

Flint rests his mouth against the curve of John’s shoulder, murmuring incoherently. John carefully reaches down with his other hand, closes it around the handle of Flint’s blade, drifting up and down, gliding clumsy fingers over the metal. Flint licks a stripe along goosebumped flesh to the spot between John’s earlobe and jaw. He pushes into the palm of John’s hand which teases him outside his trousers. “You can’t,” barely twists into John’s ear.

But John does anyway.

Resistant lips drag over the rough of John’s beard and pause. “You can't,” he repeats breathy and ragged into the corner of John’s mouth.

John slips his tongue between Flint’s lips and pulls it back with an upward curl to it, luring Flint into his mouth, just to show him exactly how much he actually _can_. The meandering stroke of Flint’s cock grows purposeful, along with the grip around the handle of Flint’s blade, and John looks up at him through his lashes. “But I already have,” he breathes.

Flint makes a fist in John’s hair, eyes hooded in lust, other hand now surrendered to the capture of John's breeches and _God_ , _oh,_ _God_ , it’s been so long since those hands, strong and heavy and downright insistent, have staked their claim upon his body. It’s been so fucking long, and John is almost angered by it, could possibly be, if it weren’t for the fact that those very hands were in the actual process of owning him.

The slide of Flint’s palm grows snug and quick and causes John’s good leg to shiver. He pulls Flint’s knife from the tuck of his leather waistbelt and presses it to his throat.

_This won’t be like last time._

Flint freezes, everywhere but at the rise and fall of his broad chest. He stares at John, mouth gulping tense air, eyes waging a war between hunger and anger. John takes no measure toward an explanation. He simply returns the stare with a question: “How does it feel to not be in control?” John watches Flint's pulse fight the edge of the blade. “How does it feel to be at _my_ mercy?”

A slight nostril flare is Flint's only response, a blink at the wrong time and John would have missed it. Something inside him multiplies. Breaths trade between them in reverie. A mountain of flesh and fabric pushes its answer into the hand John keeps cupped below Flint’s waist. Flint eases forward still. John swallows. Skin melts over the brim of the blade as John licks his lips in anticipation. He knows there is no taming him, but the lecherous act is arousing by virtue of its impossible merits. He turns the knife to its flat side just before Flint surges forward and consumes him.

Flint pulls his hand from tousled waves to wrap his arm behind John’s back, pulling him close, impossibly close, too close to be able to fondle each other, just - close for the sake of being close. The push of his pelvis forces the cold rings on the hand snuggled in John’s breeches to press into the nest of hair and warm flesh at the base of John’s cock. Flint cradles the part of John’s dick that isn’t fortunate enough for the gift of friction. “Fuck,” John whimpers at the thought of actually going through with it this time.

He’d been too afraid before, and Flint’s subsequent rejection hadn’t exactly made the prospect more appealing. But now, this insatiable urge to plunge head first into this man, a man understood by most to be incapable of anything beyond the pull of his own darkness... Where is all of this coming from?

Flint’s dick is in John’s hand before he can afford an answer. John’s fingers linger, making clumsy lines along Flint’s length. He tries to make some sense of it. _James_ \- He tugs more decidedly at his Captain. Lips scrape along chapped skin. He’d told John not to use his name but - rough fabric scratches down the back of John’s hand as smooth and hot and solid skin slips across his palm - _shit_ , that’s who he is touching. That's who he wants. Not the Captain; not Flint. _James_.

John tears himself away from Flint’s lips, just for a moment, just to look into his eyes, birthing memories of moans and freckles trapped beneath his tongue.

_Are you in there?_

He can’t let himself get lost again. Won’t let himself. Not in _Captain Flint_.

 _Fuck me_.

 _What_ ? _No_! John could bear it before - Flint’s sharp words, his abrupt dismissal - but not now. Not when Flint’s grip is tight and even, massaging John in luscious strokes. The long stretch of days have already taken their toll, each one creeping mockingly past while John struggled to make sense of these things called feelings. He can’t handle becoming Flint’s mistake again. Not like this; not in this mangled body.

“Fuck me,” he says aloud.

_Shit._

“Fuck you?” Flint grins, or John thinks he does. He hears a smile in his Captain’s voice but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. When had he even shut them? Flint presses words into John’s lips, “You can’t even handle me stroking you.”

John trembles at that, the truth, the intensity, the excitement building in his chest and his trousers. He _can't_ handle it, doesn't know how, and he pulls the knife from beneath Flint’s chin and slams the point into the door behind him, wraps both arms around Flint and pushes into his fist, finally surrendering to the will of his own body.

Flint twists his hand around John’s dick and forces out a submissive breath, a breath that makes John feel as if he’s been without air for ages. Another twist and a steady tug provokes an actual sound this time, and John is almost disoriented by his inability to control it. He pushes his tongue into Flint’s mouth to bury his own cries of pleasure.

It's fucking embarassing, John's stuttered breath, his racing heart. It exposes him in a way he doesn't feel entirely comfortable with. And a part of him wants to pull back, a lowly part which dwells in rancid places which John barely visits. A demon whispers there, tells him that he shouldn't enjoy this. It's wrong, it says. It's wrong because of this and because of that. It's shameful. It's disgusting. It's--

Flint pumps, and pulls, and quickens the pace. “Is that - what you want?” he teases between kisses. “You want _mmm_ to fuck you?”

John lowers his head, tears swelling behind his eyelids. And _fuck you James Flint_ because that is exactly what he wants.

“Say it.”

“I… I--”

“Tell me,” Flint coaxes, tilting his head to catch John’s lips in his. He lifts John’s head back into the door with only the force of his hungry mouth.

“I want… I need, _ah_ \- I want you to...” But John is wrecked, thoughts melting before they stand a chance to reach his tongue. “Please.”

“Please?” Flint mocks, stroking John tighter and faster.

He lowers his arm from John’s waist and slips his hand down the crest of his ass. John’s mouth flies open but nothing comes out just as a finger hooks into him.

Nerve endings scream out instead. It’s overwhelmingly sensitive, almost unbearably so, like the catch of teeth along the head of his cock just after an intense orgasm. It’s painfully pleasant, electric, and he flusters with the newness of it.

“Does it hurt?” Flint asks.

“No,” John lies.

So Flint pushes in deeper.

“Christ,” John gasps. He shoots a piercing look which ricochets off of the spiteful eyes across from him. _Fuck you, James Flint. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you._ “Fuck! _Fffffuuhuh - ah_ \--”

Flint draws his lips back into a wicked grin, tells John to breathe through the pain. “It gets better,” he seduces. “If you can embrace the pain, it can quickly grow into pleasure.”

John balks, but the slippery tone of his Captain’s words ultimately forces him to do as he’s told. He breathes, he relaxes, and Flint pushes his finger in up to the knuckle. He’s straddling Flint’s leg now, holding onto his neck and head for dear life and trying his best to fuck into the palm of Flint’s other, more benevolent hand.

And as if the seas have paused to take notes, there grows this rhythm between them. Flint rocks into John, attached to his mouth, tongue rushing over the soft, slimy texture in marvelous, wistful strokes. John reaches down into Flint’s breeches once more and finds his heavy dick, causing the Captain to shudder. Flint’s hair has fallen from its queue and starts to gather around his cheeks, practically covering one of his eyes. John pushes it back as if it’s offended him. He needs to see the whole of this man, he needs to let the sea in his eyes wash over him unhindered.

_Look at me, James._

_I’m here._

_Where are you?_

They’re calmer now, far more familiar, settling into the dance. Flint kisses John deeply as his finger dares to leave a trail of small circles within him. John answers with a squeeze of Flint’s cock and a deliciously breathy sound escapes to mingle with John’s helpless whines. Passion and pain collide and John can feel himself shifting. What was once a gentle rock into the hand in front of him is quickly turning into lustful strokes against the hand behind his back. John sinks his nails into the tense and strong line of Flint’s neck, the crescendo of such rolling pleasure sending him recklessly toward climax.

“You like that?” Flint murmurs.

Flint brings his fingers to glide over the head of John’s dick, collecting the droplets of ecstasy pooling in the slit. He slides two fingers over his own cock as well, and John watches in sheer exhilaration as Flint coats them in liquid bliss. He pulls himself slowly from John and switches hands behind him. Two slick fingers greet him at his entrance before making themselves at home.

“God damn you, James Flint,” John whispers, wincing at the slip up.

A brief panic stirs within him but he makes no room for it to stay. He tries to keep his eyes from rolling back, a powerful cocktail of fear and euphoria intoxicating him. He’s breathing hard, sending curtains of tumbling hair across Flint’s face, but despite his brazen outcry Flint does not break eye contact. _Is that you, James? Is this softness and this ease and this passion actually you?_

John moans into both of Flint’s hands, does his best to continue stroking him as well, but a terrible tremor travels up his good leg, mocking his valiant efforts. He clutches at Flint’s coat to steady himself, bringing it to his mouth and biting down on the leather collar. He’s close, oppressively close, and Flint’s breath rolls hot in his ear. “Not yet.”

John nuzzles himself into the crook of Flint’s neck, inhales the salty smell of his skin, runs his lashes along the soft hairs of his beard - and if not yet then when? John fears he cannot last much longer.

Flint lets his fingers slip from inside of John but keeps John’s cock in a firm grip, kissing and biting John’s ear through a halfway childish moment of protest. Flint’s chest shakes as he chuckles to himself, causing John to smile against his neck.

“Turn around,” Flint instructs, and his voice is smooth but stern, sending pools of lust to boil viciously between John’s legs.

John does as he’s told.

Flint pulls John’s jacket off and presses him into the door, letting his own anxious cock throb against John’s aching backside. He pushes his shirt halfway up exposing the soft curves of his cheeks peeking above his unclasped trousers. An arm comes around John’s middle and fingers wrap around his dick once more, sliding and squeezing in sensual strokes. Flint pushes John’s pants out of his way, then moves John’s hair from over his shoulder and tucks it behind his ear. “Tell me you want me to fuck you,” he whispers.

John rolls his forehead against the door and looks at Flint from over his shoulder. The eyes gazing back are clouded in a cagey kind of focus. Flint’s still not sure, and it’s almost too much. How can he still be so hesitant? He’s rock solid against John’s ass with a handful of John’s pulsating answer, but he’s still asking for permission. His breath feathers against John’s chin, starting fires in different places yet sending chills to battle the flames.

John’s done with thinking.

He tells Flint to fuck him, and all the air in his lungs chases after the words. Flint lunges forward, a sweltering stiffness nudges John apart, and the fear which spreads throughout the lust reminds John of the pain he’s been using as fodder for foreplay.

His leg throbs right along with his dick as the head of Flint’s cock slips down the cleft of his ass, pauses, still wet with the mixture of pre-come and just waiting for the moment to strike. John reaches a shaky hand over his shoulder and grabs the back of Flint’s neck, pulling him into a blanket of hair which tickles the hinge of John’s jaw as Flint breathes. His cock feels almost ready to burst in the warm and decisive slide of Flint’s hand. Curses fall from bitten lips as John groans under his breath. He won’t last very much longer; he’s absolutely certain of it.

For the first time in his life he feels the delectable stretch he’s wondered at since the days of his misspent youth. So many years, so many women, so many times he’s been left unsatisfied. His muscles sing and spasm around the tip of Flint’s dick, winning him a breathy grunt from right behind his ear. It’s unlike anything to finally be on the receiving end. The slide is rough and scorching but Flint goes salaciously slow, massaging John’s opening as if he really has no intention of pushing in further.

The side of Flint’s fist slaps against John’s body as he glides himself along the length of John’s shaft, bouncing from its root to its swollen top. Flint pushes John’s shirt up and over his head, exposing his back fully and covering half his face. Both teeth and cock sink into him as a hand clasps over his mouth. The scent of linen and ocean float through John’s struggling breaths. He realizes he’s being too loud.

“You’re a mouthy little shit,” Flint growls. “I should’ve known you’d be a screamer.”

And for once, John has no response, no smart comment, no silly grin, no shift of an eye in place of words. He completely submits to the will of his Captain. The sound goes out around him, the air is thick behind the fabric muffling his repressed moans. His eyes roll back as he tries to stay present, but one body can only take so much.

The door rattles in front of him to the tune of three solid knocks. “Captain?”

Flint’s hand flushes tighter against John’s mouth, but no other actions change. He still tugs at John from in front while pushing himself in from behind. John stiffens with frenzy but Flint simply shushes him. “You’re alright,” he whispers. “Come for me.”

Another three knocks. “Captain, it’s Mr. Howell.”

There is truly no use in fighting it. The initial panic flees as soon as it comes, swapping itself with utter exhilaration. Flint pushes into John just a fraction more, just enough to send a twinge of pain to mingle with the thrill of being caught. Just a few inches of old oak span between the doctor and John, separating his secret from the rest of the crew, and it’s almost tempting to just let himself wail. The forbidden fruit is ripe on his tongue, but he bites at the pinks of his cheeks instead. He claws at Flint’s neck and grabs hold of the candle sconce just beside the door. And John’s tumbling over the precipice before he can make heads or tails of it.

He spills into Flint’s hand, the breath of his moans hissing behind Flint’s other, more restrictive palm. His ears pop from the pressure of delirious pleasure having little means of escaping him. A fit of convulsions. Luscious heat. Trembling muscles place him leaning back into the tense line of Flint’s shoulder, and finally Flint releases John’s mouth. John bites down on the fabric of his shirt, stifling his final expressions of rapture.

The blood rushes back from his softening cock leaving him feeling tingles all over. John can hardly imagine what it would be like to be fully stretched and filled by the man before Flint is carefully slipping out of him. There is second, just a brief moment where John hears a breath draw behind him as if words are imminent, but Flint fastens his pants instead, leaving John to the task of filling the silence. John lifts his head from off of Flint’s shoulder and turns to look at him.

“I guess we’re even,” he says at the bottom of an exhale, the slightest hint of a grin buried beneath his mustache.

Flint fights back a smile while tucking his shirt back into his waistbelt and trousers. He looks John up and down, briefly pausing just below his disheveled shirt. John has purposely left his trousers for last. He’s still half hard and he’s heard tell more than once of his awfully pretty cock. Flint picks up John’s coat and hands it to him, doing what John figures is his best impression of being unamused. John smirks, grabs his jacket and Flint’s entire wrist with it, just before he clasps a hand around Flint’s neck and brings him into a kiss. “Next time both of us should come,” he grins against Flint’s lips.

But - it’s different somehow; lacking. Flint barely kisses back. He shuts his eyes and pulls John’s hand from its perch behind his neck. Confusion stitches onto John’s face as Flint tells him with a regrettable sigh, “There isn’t going to be a next time.” He lets go of John’s wrist, looks down at his chin, his lips, his nose, then finally into his eyes. “It’s as you said… we’re even.”

Flint tugs up John’s pants and clasps them for him, steps to the side and walks around John, making his way for the door. And John remembers this feeling: falling in place. Is this truly all that it was to Flint? Just a way to make things square between them? Is there anything that this man can do that doesn’t involve his need for control? John turns his head and opens his mouth but the door swings open before he can start.

“Doctor Howell,” Flint calls from behind him.

John comes about to find the doctor sitting atop a barrel in the passageway. “Captain,” he recites with the timbre of apology. He stands but doesn’t move forward. “Billy sent me.”

_Fucking Billy._

John finally rests himself upon the edge of Flint’s desk. His leg is throbbing now that the adrenaline has cleared out of his system, and Howell’s approaching him before he can formally renounce the deed. “Christ. Are you alright?” he asks. “You look positively haggard. I don’t think you should be on--”

“I’m fine!” John snaps.

Howell sighs, no doubt already used to John’s quick bouts of stubborn rage. “Let’s have a look at the leg,” he suggests.

“I didn’t send for you,” John sneers, but he’s looking directly at Flint.

The sound of water swirls around his voice as Flint dips his fingers into one of the buckets he’s taken to leaving for John, washing all evidence of their coupling from his impenitent hands. His palms are still flushed pink with exertion. His hair is still untied. It’s only been a few fucking minutes and already Flint wants to be rid of John, casting him aside like a toy he’s outgrown. John doesn’t recognize this level of rage, if he can even truly label it as such.

He wants to stomp right up to Flint, to grab him by the collar and ask him just what the fuck he means by thinking he can treat John as some common whore to be promptly discarded. He wants to stomp right up to him... John looks down at his half a leg and has a chuckle by himself. What the fuck is he so angry about? He's just had the best orgasm of his life and it was true, now they were even. So, again, where the hell is all of this coming from?

  
Flint smoothes his hair back with the beaded water trickling down his fingers, walks over to the door and pulls his blade from its wooden wedging. John watches him tuck the knife back into his waistbelt and disappear into the hall without so much as a glance his way. And _it’s alright_ , John thinks. It doesn’t have to be anything more than what it is. He’ll give the speech, take the gold, and fucking disappear. And that will be the end of these ridiculous things called feelings, and this useless infatuation with a man called Flint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands, 
> 
> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://crucifythenburn.tumblr.com/) and let's be geeks about gay and bisexual pirates. It will totally make my day ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets, 
> 
> Trinity

**Author's Note:**

> For those who have asked, I am taking a break from this series to work on the I Will Try to Fix You AU, but I will come back to this one once that one is finished :)
> 
> Love & Rockets.


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